What is this that clings so hopelessly
To life? why do you refuse to wilt,
Following the slowly dimming embers
Of the fire?
It is time.
It is time to make that final passage;
Even immortals face mortality, and
You, my once most dear muse, must
Now lie beneath the dark seamless veil
This means not that those sweet
Memories will fade, that those bright,
Flickering flames be extinguished.
No, it means that you, O fading
Origin, must finally vanish in smoke.
You graciously visited my poet's dream
More often than I can say; clouding
Truth with chimerical fantasy,
Continuously whispering, spilling out
In endless ink on page after page.
With joy I will treasure the flames that
Remain, memorials of that which once was.
All love and hate, all blame and praise,
Immortalized in swift scratchings on pages
And scraps, yet etched within my mind.
So let the ember dim to dark, sinking
Into the dreams of another; while your
Flame here slips into the deepest dark,
It will burst forth for some other.
It is time.
Your mouth moves in a soundless
Whisper, last words trembling in air.
With a smile dancing across your lips,
You vanish, a muse of mine no more.